“But he is going to his work, senor,” the patron objected.

“In this country, one does not work while the sun is high,” said Kit, who rather ostentatiously pulled out his pistol.  “Call him back!”

The patron shouted and the man returned, but Kit kept his pistol in his hand.

“Nobody must leave the pueblo until I start,” he said.  “I want porters and am willing to pay.”

“Very well,” the patron agreed, shrugging.  “Perhaps I can find a few men, but they will want the money before they go.”

For a time, Kit bargained.  The sailors were tired, and few white men are capable of much exertion in the tropic swamps.  He must have help, and doubting if the Meztisos could be trusted, thought it best to offer a sum that would excite their greed, but stipulated that half would not be paid until they returned.  When the patron was satisfied Kit turned to the sailors.

“You’ll have to hustle, boys,” he said.  “The sooner we make the mission, the sooner we’ll get back, and I reckon nobody wants to stop in these swamps.  There’s something beside your wages coming to you.”

“That’s all right, boss,” one replied.  “The old man drove hard, but he paid well and he was white.  You can go ahead; we’ll put the job over.”

The peons took up the stretcher-poles lashed to the coffin, a relief party went behind and they set off.  Nobody spoke and the Meztisos’ bare feet fell silently on the hot sand, although Kit heard the dragging tramp of the sailors’ muddy boots.  In the open space round the village, the sun burned their skin and they pushed on as fast as possible for the twilight of the woods.

Here and there a bright gleam pierced the gloom, but for the most part deep shadow filled the gaps between the trunks.  Creepers laced the great cottonwoods, tangled vines crawled about their tall, buttressed roots, and hung in festoons from the giant branches.  Some of the trees were rotten and orchids covered their decay with fantastic bloom.  The forest smelt like a hothouse, but the smell had an unwholesome sourness.  Growth ran riot; green things shot up, choked each other, and sank in fermenting corruption.

Kit did not know if it was a relief to escape from the glare of the clearing or not.  The sun no longer burned him, but he could hardly breathe the humid air, and effort was almost impossible.

All the same, he pushed on, floundering in muddy pools and sinking in belts of mire.  The road had been made long since, by slave labor, when the Spaniards ruled, and had fallen into ruin, like the country, when their yoke was broken.  Kit could trace the ancient causeway across the swamps and wondered when another strong race would put their stamp on the land.  The descendants of the conquerors had sunk into apathetic sloth; the blood of the dark-skinned peoples that ran in their veins had quenched the old Castilian fire.